Thursday, 23 July 2015

The Colour of Grief

My father died eight years ago today. I didn't realize this until I was at the coffee shop with Cedar and Brian this morning, and wrote the date into my journal. I wrote about my dad while Bri and Cedar drew funny pictures of aliens. I cried, wrote, answered to Cedar a few times, drank my coffee, and kissed the top of my boy's head more than usual. I made a pact with myself, that even when I am with my kids, I will still find the time to write, even if it's a messy sentence or two minutes of a poem, or just an idea to paper. I also made a pact with myself to share more of my writing. Here is what I wrote this morning. The Colour of Grief

Death - it's a shaken box. Everything in
it, rattling. A snowglobe scene of life, upside down. The car, the heatwave,
the blueberry hand pie and strong espresso, my stomach, his long limbs - bare
now. No fat. No momentum. Like a tree whose leaves did not take. Skinny poplar
branches.

He was sleeping in my brother's bed, the
bed I'd slept in the night before; listening, listening for any sound he might
make. A part of me awake all night. A vigil. The TV channel was set to a nature
sounds station. Birds chirping all night, a monotonous stream, sometimes
crickets and wind. My father’s snore, for the first and last time, the greatest
comfort to me.

Love. Love in my chest. A weeping love. A
nervous love. Love holding on tight, making stamps of everything, everything,
to keep as memories.

The heat wave, the fan, the back and forth,
the up and down of stairs.

Death. Making its slow, definite way toward
us.

You don’t, you can’t say goodbye. Who and
what are you saying that to? People slip through dimensions, their bodies left
like laundry on the floor.

I did not say goodbye.

My body was so heavy with love; love’s new
face, love’s new sadness, love’s loss.

My father’s eyes were blue as Lake Louise
that morning, as he slipped away, through that building of his body, clean as a
canoe cutting through water.

And me, us, here like remnants. The rattled
box now still. The sweeping through complete. Now there is just debris. Now
there is just grief.

The sunset that day was the kind that makes
you breathe more deeply, makes you stop, makes everything feel held in beauty.
It was pink and orange and even purple in places. It was every colour my heart
was; a bruise so beautiful I could not look away.

Me and my People

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About Me

I'm a cookie mogul and an entrepreneur (check out my biz New Moon Kitchen). I'm also a mom and a wife and I have lots of tricks up my sleeve. All the time. I want to inspire others to feel that they can choose and design their lives.